Intermissio
by Nevah
Summary: The Perfect Soldier pauses to ponder his imperfections...


Just a quick little fic I needed to write to better get my thoughts in order. Purposely ambiguous, intentionally fragmentary--don't say you weren't warned.  
  
If you really feel the need for background info and want to cheat, click [here][1] and be whisked away to the story that preceeds this one (called In Absentia). This fic isn't an actual sequel to it, just more of a side note (as the title suggests).  
  
Speaking of the title, yup, it's Latin again. Hopefully the translation is glaringly obvious, as it's only shy one letter of the English, but I'll give it to you anyway: it means (And you wondered where our language came from...)  
  
As per the usual, I do not own Gundam Wing, yada yada yada. Aren't disclaimers annoying?  
  
And of course reviews are welcome, so don't be shy.  
  
~*~  
  
I hear it when you leave his room.  
  
The sound is so soft it's almost imperceptible, but of course, I'm trained to hear the things that others might miss. It's in my blood to register the low bump of wood meeting wood, the click as the brass knob slips back into place. My ears twitch as they decode the muffled noise, and the effort of it isn't even really a conscious one. It's the closest feeling I have to any sort of instinct, and I cling to it now to keep from losing myself completely.   
  
Why are you so quiet? The slide of your footsteps is nearly nonexistent as you move down the hallway. You weren't this quiet before, moaning and whimpering his name, finally screaming obscenities in ungodly shrieks as you came. I didn't know what else to do so I did just this, I lay here, listening to every miserable note of your lovemaking. Though, I suppose is a relative term. You didn't sound miserable. /He/ didn't sound miserable. It sounded delicious in fact, and I struggled with the rampant impulses of my own body as every growl and sigh curled along my spine and centered solidly in my groin. It was disgusting, getting hard at such a thing, but then I suppose I don't deserve anything less than the gravest of indignities.   
  
Was it just to punish me? I guess I'd like to believe it was, if I had a choice. I should be punished. Anyone heartless enough to so blatantly abuse and dismiss your love deserves greater suffering than I can even imagine. Lies like those can never be excused. That's right, lies. I lied to you, and the worst of it is that I don't even know why. I lose my fucking mind with you, though that's a pitiful excuse. Resting so peacefully beside you, the heat of your body cruel and dizzying, and the only thought in my head is that I want you to feel as vulnerable as I do. I want you to understand the feeling of complete disarmament, and before I know it, the lies start marching right out of my mouth. How could anyone be so sick? How could /I/ be so sick? I would never hurt you, but I want you to suffer. That can't be right.  
  
I hope you enjoyed yourself with him. I really do. How did it play out, exactly? I agonize over the details, try to imagine exactly how your bodies must have looked moving against one another. Your hair loose, flowing around you in thick, cascading waves; his spikey and damp with sweat, clinging to the sharp angles of his cheek and jawbone. Your frame thick, knotted and curved with powerful muscle; his longer and more svelte, the uninterrupted smoothness of his limbs and torso concealing his incredible, cat-like strength. The fantasy is both beautiful and suffocating. Did you give yourself to him, or did you take? If I know you well enough, and I think I do, you let him have you without a second thought. You're so generous that way, and it boils my blood to think that he probably didn't even appreciate it. Did you notice the name on his lips, in his thoughts, as he climaxed? Did you notice that it wasn't yours? I noticed. To hear it was an almost violent experience, and I gripped my blankets savagely to keep from tearing through the wall and beating him until I felt his bones crack beneath my fists. That he could fuck you and not even really be fucking /you/ is more than I can bear.  
  
The moans echo in my ears. My anger only feeds my lust, and I feel choked as I try to swallow it back from the surface. I could so easily end this, I could so easily just jerk myself off and rid my senses of this torture, but I refuse. The pain is appropriate. The throbbing in my cock keeps me from careening off into obscurity, and I'm grateful for this bit of grounding._ Heero, please... don't do this._ I hear your voice as I struggle, and I dig my fingers into the flesh of my chest to keep them from wandering lower. _Don't act this way._ You're right, of course. You were right then, and you're right still: there is no reason for me to be so damned childish. No reason at all.  
  
I breathe deeply, slow and deliberate, and force my mind further back into our fight. A vision of your jarred, heartbroken face blinks through my consciousness, and suddenly I'm feeling a very different kind of pain. Sharp, gut-wrenching spasms explode in my chest, and it's difficult to draw air beneath the crushing guilt. I'd just stood there, stoic and heartless, not even trying to explain myself and my thoughtless silence, and you'd gotten angry. The fury had flashed brilliantly against the bright violet of your eyes, and I'd been glad. I was even glad when finally, blessedly, you threw one of my sneakers at me. As it thudded against the wall behind my head, I jumped at the chance to fight in a way I understood. I can kick over furniture and trade insults with the best of them, but real words are just too much. With you, I can never say what I mean to say, and I hate the imperfection of it. Everything you have should be flawless.  
  
I'm exhausted. I've been through too many battles tonight, or maybe I've just lost too many. My body begins to calm, the shame and fatigue easily more powerful than my loathesome arousal. There's a vague victory in this, but even it is deceiving. I only feel worse for having won.  
  
As I settle restlessly into the blankets, I try to imagine that you're here with me. Your legs are tangled gently with mine, and your breath is warm on my neck. If I concentrate hard enough, I'm sure I can feel you there. It's blissful. I don't want to hurt you, I don't wish that you'd suffer; I'm just grateful for your presence, and I can sense that you're grateful for mine.  
  
I whisper it softly, and it feels right on my lips. Perfect, even.   
  
You sigh, your mouth curving into a smile against my skin. This is the way it should be, I know. The way it would have been. The way it will never be.  
  
~*~  
  
  
  


   [1]: http://www.fanfiction.net/index.fic?action=story-read&storyid=263265



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